


Honey, I'm Good

by Anonymous



Series: How to Date Your Booby [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Enjolras, Awkward Marius, Fake Dating, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 10:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17424407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Practice makes perfect... right?





	Honey, I'm Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is my birthday present to myself! I wrote to the same prompt as the author of I Say, Take Me Out! (and I'm staying anonymous, so no one figures out who that is). It was fun to come up with this prompt together, and even more fun to write it! It's very silly and obviously not meant to be taken seriously. But I hope it can bring a smile to your face!

“I’m nervous.”

Combeferre looks up from his book, takes in the sight of Enjolras standing in the doorway with an armful of pop psychology books, and lets out a gentle sigh. 

“Come over here.”

Enjolras sets his books on the table and climbs onto the couch to snuggle up at Combeferre’s side. This is exactly the outcome he had been hoping for.

“I’m nervous,” he says again.

Combeferre pats him somewhat absentmindedly, while turning one eye to the pile of books on the table. “What are you nervous about?”

“I’m going to ask out Grantaire.”

Combeferre looks up, eyes wide. “You what?”

“I’m going to ask him out. I made a resolution this year to stop focusing on _what-if’s_ and act in spite of my anxiety, and I think this is a great way to start doing that.”

“That’s so great!” Combeferre throws his arms around Enjolras and squishes him to his chest. “I can’t believe you’re finally going to do it. It’s been long enough.”

“Yeah! But the only problem is that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Is that what all these psychology books are for?”

“Mhmm. I know I’m not the best with emotions and stuff, so I thought I would study up and see if I could get any pointers. But to be honest, none of these books are very helpful.”

Combeferre picks up one of the books between his fingers. “Where did you even get all of these?”

“I went to that little bookstore you like. They were really nice. Although the cashier tried to get me to go on a date with her. I think she thought I was a girl.”

“Hmm.” Combeferre continues to go through the pile of books. Enjolras can’t really tell what he’s thinking, until he straightens back up, lips pursed. “You know I’m always a proponent of seeking knowledge through the written word, but... these don’t seem that helpful. I think what you really need is hands-on experience.”

That sounds scary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you should go on a practice date. You’ve never been on a date, right? So you need to get your bearings before you go out with Grantaire.”

“But who would date me?”

Combeferre laughs disbelievingly. “Enjolras, I don’t think there’s anyone who _wouldn’t_ want to date you. Just ask out some random person.”

“Okay. Will you go out with me?”

“Not me. I’m too close to you. Same with Courfeyrac. You should ask out someone who doesn’t know you as well in order to simulate first-date awkwardness.”

Enjolras thinks about it. It seems scary, but Combeferre is probably right. He always is, somehow. So he scratches his head, trying to think of someone who could provide an awkward practice date. 

“Do you think Joly would do it?”

“Maybe, but isn’t it weird to date Grantaire’s best friend before dating him?”

“Good point.”

Enjolras takes out his phone. He opens up messaging and starts to scroll down, looking for any names that catch his eye. He’s about to settle for the weird guy from his math class, when it strikes him.

“I know! I’ll ask Marius!”

Combeferre snaps his fingers in that nerdy way he does. “That’s perfect. He’ll be a great choice. And I already know he’s free every weekend, because he purposefully doesn’t schedule anything in hopes that Cosette will call him.”

“Isn’t Cosette trying to date Eponine?”

“Yeah, but Marius has never been one to give up hope easily.”

Shaking his head at Marius’s temerity, Enjolras opens their conversation, which is terse and made up almost entirely of “sounds good” and “okay, I’ll be there,” and laboriously begins to type a message.

“How does this sound,” he asks, as soon as he’s done. “ _Hi, Marius! Are you doing well? I have a huge favor to ask. I was wondering if you’d be free on Friday night at around seven?"_

“That’s okay,” says Combeferre. “Go ahead and send it.”

Enjolras sends the message, then turns off his phone and sits on it. Combeferre looks at him like he’s started sprouting moss.

“Enjolras, what are you doing?”

“I’m nervous.”

“Why are you nervous? What do you think is going to happen?”

“What if he hates me after this?”

Combeferre strokes his hair. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t hate you, and this won’t make him do so. You’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes— wait, was that a buzz?”

Enjolras takes his phone out from under his leg and looks at it. Sure enough, Marius has replied.

“He says he’s free,” he reports.

“I knew it.”

“Should I ask him now?”

“Yes.”

So Enjolras types out a lengthy message explaining the situation and asking for help, and after showing it to Combeferre for proofreading, sends it. He bounces up and down on the couch, feeling his heart race for what is probably no reason. 

“What if he says no?”

“Then you can find someone else. It’s okay.”

But this is not something that Enjolras needs to worry about, because Marius doesn’t say no. Marius says an enthusiastic and verbose yes. 

“I will pick you up at seven,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’ve been on a date before, so I know what to do. I’ll take care of everything.”

What a relief. Enjolras sends back his affirmation and thanks, and slumps back against the couch. “I hope it goes well.”

“Well, even if it doesn’t, it’s just practice,” Combeferre reminds him. “So this is nothing to worry about at all. It’s okay.”

“That’s true.” Carefully, Enjolras sets his phone on the table, and climbs up into Combeferre’s lap. “What are you reading? Will you read to me?”

“Are you sure? I’m reading about the history of the plague prior to 1348.”

Enjolras shrugs. “It sounds interesting.”

“Then, okay.”

Combeferre opens his book and starts to read aloud, and Enjolras leans back against him and closes his eyes to listen better. It’s all okay, he thinks. Even if this dating thing doesn’t work out, he’ll always have his best friend. 

—

Marius is late.

At first, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had tried to calm Enjolras by telling him that not everyone is as devastatingly punctual as he is, but by the time 7:15 had come and gone, even they had lost their optimism. 

“He may have forgot,” says Courfeyrac. “I mean, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Enjolras fidgets unhappily on the couch. He’d actually put effort into his appearance in preparation for this date, and he doesn’t want to waste it. Besides, it’s kind of embarrassing that Marius apparently isn’t taking this seriously. It makes him feel like a fool.

“Can we go out somewhere?” he asks. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be anywhere fancy, but...”

“We can,” says Courfeyrac. “Where do you want to go, baby?”

Enjolras doesn’t get a chance to reply, because at this moment, there’s a knock on the door. He gets up to open it, but before he can, it opens by itself, and Marius comes shuffling in.

“Hey,” he says. 

Enjolras goes up to him and offers a hug. “Hello, Marius.”

Marius seems nervous to put his arms around Enjolras, sort of like he thinks he’s made of glass or something. He carefully pats him on the back, then holds on for just a moment too long, as if he’s not sure when to let go. It’s the most awkward hug Enjolras has ever experienced, and that includes the time his dad had tried to express a modicum of emotion after his high school graduation. Still, it wouldn’t do to say anything about it. Enjolras steps away.

“Thanks for coming. You look nice.”

He doesn’t, really. He’s wearing cargo shorts and slides. But a little white lie never hurt anyone. 

“You look nice, too,” says Marius. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. Where are we going?”

“I thought we could take a walk through the park,” says Marius. “You know, the Luxembourg park?”

That sounds cute. Enjolras reaches for his coat. “I’m down.”

“Good.” Marius attempts and fails to help him put his coat on, then, seeing that his help is really a hindrance, just opens the door. “Let’s go.”

“Okay, bye ‘Ferre, bye Courfeyrac! I’ll be back later.”

“Have a good time,” says Combeferre, and Courfeyrac whistles ear-splittingly. 

“Get it good!”

Enjolras waves to them one more time, and leaves out the door with Marius. They go down to his car, not talking, and get in, still not talking. Enjolras really has no idea what to say. He would compliment the car, except there’s really nothing to compliment (other than the fact that it’s somehow still managed to hold together, and that seems rude to point out), and he’s never been the best with small-talk. For the millionth time, he wishes he were more extroverted. 

“So,” he says eventually, seeing that Marius isn’t about to break the silence. “Thank you so much for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem,” says Marius. “You know, you always did remind me a bit of Cosette.”

“That’s a lovely compliment.”

“Yeah.”

They lapse into silence again. Enjolras isn’t about to give up, though. Surely he can think of _something_ to talk about.

“How’s your job going?” he asks. “Is translation more fun than law?”

Much to Enjolras’s delight, Marius smiles, and his voice is animated when he answers. “Yes, it’s a lot more fun. I never liked working in the law office. It was nice to be with Courfeyrac, but it just wasn’t for me. Oh— not to scare you. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“I hope I will,” says Enjolras. “But tell me more about your job. What’s it like to translate all day?”

They manage to make this discussion last until they’ve pulled up into the parking lot beside the Luxembourg gardens. Then, Marius unstraps himself and gets out of the car, leaving it running, and comes around to open Enjolras’s door for him. 

“Come on,” he says.

“Should I turn off the car first?”

“Oh, right. Yes, please.”

Enjolras turns off the car and gets out. He hands the keys to Marius. “Shall we?”

Marius looks like he’s facing a moral dilemma. His face is all pinched, and he looks around, as if hoping for inspiration from someone else, though, of course, no one else is there. Eventually, he nods to himself, purposeful, and reaches out to grab Enjolras’s hand. His grip is a little too firm, and his palm is already sweaty, but there’s nothing Enjolras can do about it.

When Marius had suggested a walk in the park, Enjolras had been picturing a leisurely stroll, maybe stopping to rest on the benches and debate about politics every so often. But this markedly does not happen. Instead, Marius tows Enjolras along behind him as he bulldozes through the few groups of people who have come out to enjoy the evening. 

“Okay,” he says, when they’ve reached what’s evidently their stopping point. It’s just a normal bench, not unlike any of the other ones in the park, but Marius sits down on it with the great satisfaction of a traveler who’s just found his metro stop in a complicated city. “Sit with me,” he offers.

Enjolras doesn’t see why he should, but he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t, either, so he does sit down, wondering if he can let go of Marius’s hand now.

“This is a nice park,” he says, more for something to do than in an actual bid for conversation. Marius sighs, a goofy expression coming onto his face.

“It’s the best.”

There’s a question to be asked there, but Enjolras thinks it might be rude to ask it. He’s not sure, but it seems like it might be prying too much. So instead, he gets his phone out and opens Snapchat. 

“Let’s take a selfie.”

Marius positively lights up. “Yes, and put it on your story. And make sure to geotag it.”

“Okay, sure.”

Enjolras takes a variety of selfies with different filters, but Marius rejects them all, until finally, exasperated, Enjolras gives him the phone and tells him to take the damn thing. Marius proceeds to take the ugliest possible picture and post it without asking Enjolras for permission first. 

“That’s good,” he says. “Now everyone will know where we are.”

“Why is that a concern?”

“Oh, you know.”

Enjolras doesn’t, but he doesn’t want to ask and look silly, so he holds his tongue and puts his phone away. Then, shivering a little in the chilly January air, he presses closer to Marius’s side.

“It’s a cold one.”

Marius doesn’t offer his coat, or put his arm around Enjolras, or anything like that. He just opens up his phone and googles “current barometric pressure.”

“Ah, 30.15,” he says, as if this is supposed to mean something to Enjolras. Then, he nods and puts his phone away, folds his hands in his lap, and sits there silently, apparently completely content. 

“So, you like meteorology,” ventures Enjolras, when it becomes clear that Marius isn’t going to say anything. Marius starts in surprise.

“What? No, I think it’s boring.”

“But you...”

“Now, stamp collecting, that’s something I could get behind.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m currently looking for the 1978 US holiday stamp collection. It’s hard to find, because nobody but real stamp collectors care about stamps that go that far back. But I’m going to find it.”

Enjolras doesn’t know enough about stamp collecting to make any witty comments at this point, and as with before, he’s not quite sure what to say. So it’s a relief when Marius checks his phone, sighs like a beagle with a broken heart, and stands up.

“Come on, we’ll miss our reservation.”

Reservation sounds good. It sounds like something inside. Enjolras shivers again and stands up to tuck his arm into the crook of Marius’s elbow and press close against the biting wind. 

“Where are we going?”

“Providence. Have you been there?”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Providence? Isn’t that one of the most expensive restaurants in the city?”

“Oh, is it?” Marius shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever been there with my grandfather.”

Privately, Enjolras resolves to get the bill. He knows Marius’s job pays well, but he would feel terrible asking him to buy him an expensive dinner when he’s the one who’s asking a favor. 

“Do you know where this place is?” asks Marius, once they’re strapped in and headed towards the freeway. “I didn’t bother to look up the address, so I have no idea where I’m going.”

“It’s downtown,” Enjolras guesses, frantically googling. Marius hums in recognition. 

“That sounds right.”

It takes at least an hour to get to Providence, although of course part of that is due to traffic, and another fifteen minutes to find parking. By the time they arrive, they’re late for their reservation. 

“Hi,” says Marius, jogging up to the hostess. “Did you give away my table?”

The hostess looks him up and down in obvious yet restrained distaste. “What’s your name?”

“Marius. Uh— Pontmercy.”

“Oh, yes. The one who called four times.” The hostess sniffs. “Follow me.”

Marius doesn’t pull Enjolras’s chair out for him until he’s already getting ready to sit down, so he stumbles and almost knocks into an approaching waiter.

“I’m so sorry!”

“It’s all right, dear.”

“Sit down, Enjolras,” prompts Marius, who’s already ensconced in his own chair. “I’m hungry!”

Has his voice always been so loud? Enjolras doesn’t think so. It seems to have grown exponentially louder ever since they set foot in the restaurant. Enjolras decides to lead by example, and as he sits down, lowers his voice to thank the hostess for directing them to the table.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” says the hostess. “Have a good meal.”

“You too.” _Wait_. “No, I mean... have a good night. Or no. Something. I just want you to be happy.”

The hostess’s face lights in genuine amusement. She pats Enjolras on the shoulder before she turns to go, and Marius huffs aloud.

“Nobody ever called me _sweetie_ here.”

“Everyone calls me _sweetie_ ,” Enjolras says. “Or _honey_ or _darling_ or whatever. I think it’s because I look young.”

“Huh.” Marius peers at Enjolras scientifically, then nods. “You do look young. You look like you’re about fifteen.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Marius nods as if he's gotten something settled, and turns to his menu. “What are you going to order?”

Enjolras inspects his menu. It all looks delicious— and very expensive. “Do you want to start with appetizers?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Then, why don’t we get some oysters, and maybe some white truffle risotto? We can share.”

“Whatever you want.”

So Enjolras orders oysters and risotto and a bottle of wine, and while they wait for the waiter to bring everything, Marius proposed that they play a game.

“Whoever can build the best sculpture out of things on the table has to take a shot of cocktail sauce.”

“What? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“Well then, we can both take a shot of cocktail sauce.”

It seems undignified to play with the things on the table, so Enjolras doesn’t, but Marius has no such compunctions. He begins to build a tower, heedless of Enjolras’s gentle protests. 

“And I’ll put the napkin on top,” he says, and tries to do so, but at this moment, his hand slips, and he knocks the whole thing onto the floor. Seemingly everyone turns around to look.

“My bad,” says Marius cheerfully, waving. “Guess I’ll have to get a new set of silverware, huh?”

Their spectators murmur their disapprobation and turn back to their food, leaving Enjolras sitting bright red in his chair. He hates having attention drawn to him when he’s not ready for it. Before he can fully recover his composure, the waiter comes over, bringing their food. She looks at the mess on the floor, and then at Marius.

“Will you need some new silverware?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll bring it. In the meantime, here are your appetizers and wine.”

It seems weird to eat when Marius can’t, so Enjolras takes out his phone and adds a picture of the food to his Snapchat story, just for the stalling time. Several people have seen his post of being in the park, and Cosette has sent a reply saying that she loves the Luxembourg gardens. By the time he’s responded to that, and to the subsequent message she sends, Marius’s silverware has arrived, and they can both eat. 

The food is delicious. Enjolras doesn’t even like oysters that much, but the ones here are nice, and he and Marius have no trouble finishing their food. Enjolras is ready to ask for the bill, but Marius intercepts him before he can get the words out.

“Can we order the chef’s special?”

“Sure,” says the waiter. “Would you also like another bottle of wine?”

“Yes.”

Now there’s another delay period while they wait for Dinner Part Two to arrive. Enjolras doesn’t quite know what to talk about, and apparently, Marius doesn’t either, because he begins to bring up random facts.

“Did you know that the best way to kill someone would be to inject a syringe full of air between their toes? It would look like they died of a heart attack, and it would never be traced back to you.”

His voice has definitely increased in volume. Enjolras knows this, because now there are people looking at them with clear distrust.

“Can we talk about something else?” he asks, as politely as he can. Marius looks surprised, as if it’s a complete mystery why Enjolras doesn’t want him loudly discussing murder in public. 

“Well, okay. So, what’s your favorite psychotropic medication?”

After several dire warnings about Enjolras’s medication regimen and an impassioned plea for him to switch to natural remedies, Marius turns to other topics, but none of them seem very dinner-appropriate. At one point, Enjolras has to interrupt a detailed monologue on the Parisian sewer system to run to the bathroom and hide, because he’s not sure he can take much more. Fortunately, their food is there when he gets back, and they can talk about that instead.

“This is good,” he says. Marius nods, raising his wine glass in a toast.

“Thanks be to God.”

They eat in silence for a little while, which is actually preferable to talking about death and sewage, until Marius sets down his fork and leans back in his chair.

“Ah... that’s good.”

“It is.”

Enjolras knows he sounds prim, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Marius doesn’t seem to mind, though. He just leans back even further, to the point where Enjolras is afraid he’ll fall over, and sighs mightily.

“I have to visit the stables. Hold the fort while I’m gone.”

He gets up and plods to the bathroom, looking like he’s trying very hard to get there as fast as he can while keeping everything where it should be. Enjolras watches him go for a second, then turns to his phone. Time to see what’s going on in social media land. 

There’s a tagged photo of him on Instagram. It turns out to be Marius’s; he’s posted a picture from the gardens captioned “my date for tonight” and almost all their friends have liked it.

“So cute,” Cosette writes. 

What is Marius thinking? Is he trying to make Cosette jealous? Maybe by pretending to date Enjolras, he’s asserting his position as a likable and dateable person. That must be it. It seems like a good strategy, only it doesn’t appear to be working. Enjolras continues to scroll through Instagram, learning some updates about Bahorel’s fitness routine, and some recipes from Musichetta, until finally Marius comes out of the bathroom. He walks towards the table, smirking and rubbing his belly.

“Ah,” he says voluminously. “Now, that’s better.”

There’s really nothing to say to that. Enjolras puts his phone away and pours himself another glass of wine.

Now that Marius has unburdened himself, he seems to feel much more at ease. He eats like an ogre, devouring his portion of food and half of Enjolras’s as well, and he never stops talking for more than a few minutes at a time. The topics of one-sided conversation range in nature, but somehow, all of them seem to be inappropriate for the public ear. 

Nodding politely along to to a diatribe about how misunderstood the capitalist system is and how Amazon is really the saving grace of society, Enjolras helps himself to more wine. It goes nicely with the food, he thinks, and certainly, it helps curb the creeping embarrassment that clusters around everything Marius does. It’s a good thing they got that second bottle, because he thinks they’re going to need it.

“Hey, so,” says Marius now. “I told the staff that I was going to propose to you, because I thought they would give us free stuff. But they didn’t. Anyway, now I have to follow through, but you can say no if you want.”

“I wouldn’t embarrass you like— wait. You’re going to _propose_ to me?”

“Yeah, I have to.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Well, okay. But please don’t make it weird.”

“What’s your definition of _weird_?”

“Um...”

“And now,” calls the hostess into a microphone. “We have a special performance tonight by Mr. Marius Pontmercy. Go ahead, sir.”

This has to be a dream. It can’t be real. Enjolras pinches himself, and even whispers “wake up” under his breath, but nothing seems to happen. He’s still sitting in his chair, watching as Marius stands up in the middle of the crowded restaurant and starts singing. 

“Fly me to the moon,” he warbles, making the song recognizable only through his over-enunciation of the lyrics. “Let me play among the stars.”

It’s intolerable. Enjolras wants to crawl under the table and hide there until the restaurant closes for the night and he can skulk home and never come to this part of the city again. He had no idea Marius was so committed to this. He sits there, blushing, until finally, thankfully, Marius stops singing.

“Enjolras,” he says, and drops to one knee. “Baby, I don’t have a ring, and I don’t have much else, either, but I love you. If you would consent to make this poor farmer the happiest man alive—“

“Yes,” interrupts Enjolras, because he’s afraid of what else Marius might come up with or decide to say. “Yes, Marius, I do. Let’s find someone to... marry us.”

The restaurant breaks into applause. Enjolras figures he should do something, so he stands up and wraps his arms around Marius’s waist. 

“I love you,” he says. 

Marius kisses him on the forehead. “I love you too, my little honeypot.”

“That’s not...”

“Now, let’s go pay. I want to get you alone.”

So they do, and although they don’t get any free stuff, everyone does congratulate them effusively. It would be sweet if any of this were real. 

“So, that was fun,” says Marius, once they’re outside, walking towards the car. “And man, that lobster was really good.”

“Yeah, it was,” agrees Enjolras a little absently. He’s wondering how long this date will last. Is he supposed to stay out all night? He doesn’t really want to. Marius is a dear friend, and usually he likes spending time with him, but right now, he just wants to go home. 

This isn’t to be, though, because Marius looks at the car keys in his hand, and puts them in his pocket. He looks at Enjolras and wiggles his ears.

“I’m drunk.”

“You are?”

“Well, drunk enough that I probably shouldn’t drive yet. Come on, let’s go see a concert. We can Uber there.”

A concert sounds good. Enjolras likes that idea. He opens up the Uber app on his phone. “What address?”

“Hmm. Let me see.” Marius takes the phone and types something in. When he gives it back, Enjolras sees that it’s not too far away. 

“Perfect. This should be fun.”

They arrive at their destination in about fifteen minutes. It’s an upscale cafe-slash-bar, and it’s nice, but it looks too small to be a concert venue.

“Who’s playing?” asks Enjolras. Marius shrugs.

“No idea. I just know they have bands perform here sometimes. And then sometimes it’s open mic.”

“That’s not a concert.”

“Sure it is. They play music, and people listen.”

It’s hard to argue with that. Enjolras goes to the bar and orders drinks for them while Marius finds a table. It’s clear when he does, because he stands up and waves, yelling loud enough to cut through the noise of the bar. 

“Enjolras! Over here!”

“Is that your man?” asks the bartender, raising an eyebrow. Enjolras shakes his head, but feels a swell of protectiveness in his chest. 

“He’s my good friend.”

“Is the cranberry tonic for him?”

“Yeah. He’s driving.”

“I see.” The bartender nods. “Well, have fun, sweetheart. And remember, I’ll be here all night.”

“Thank you.”

Enjolras goes back to the table and gives Marius his cranberry tonic. He sits down and starts to sip at his drink, thinking about how lucky he is to have Marius as a friend. Sure, he’s awkward and embarrassing, but he took the time to help Enjolras with this, no questions asked. It’s so sweet, so thoughtful.

“Thank you for doing this,” he says. “It really does mean a lot.”

“It’s no problem. It gives me practice for when I date— uh, someone.”

That someone is definitely Cosette. Now isn’t the time to tell Marius that his pining is a lost cause, Enjolras thinks, so he smiles and gives a noncommittal response.

“Uh, right. Anyway, thank you.”

“Hey look,” says Marius, pointing to the area that might charitably be described as a mini stage. “The band is setting up.”

Enjolras looks— and immediately ducks his head to hide behind Marius. “Damn it.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“That’s my ex.”

“You mean the one who tried to sell you for a bag of cocaine?”

“The very one.”

“Uh... well, maybe he’s changed?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Have fun,” says Marius, probably sincerely. Enjolras hops off his stool and tries to sneak across the open floor of the bar without being seen. It works for awhile, until suddenly he’s being hoisted up in the air, and a deep, boisterous bass voice is calling his name.

“Enjolras! Fancy seeing you here!”

“Bahorel.” Enjolras twists in his grip. “Can you set me down, please?”

“Sure!” Bahorel places him back down on the floor, surprisingly gently, and pats him. His hand covers his head like a hat. “What are you doing here, little one? Are you by yourself?”

“No, I’m with Marius. But I should really...”

“No, no! Come and have a drink with me. I’ll even pay!”

Enjolras isn’t sure what to do (should he abandon Marius? Should he grab both his friends and drag them out of the bar?) but before he can decide on a course of action, there’s a footstep, ominously close, and his cocaine-loving ex comes up to him, practically near enough to touch him. He never did have a very good concept of boundaries. 

“Hello, Enjolras. I heard your name, and thought I’d come over to say hi.”

Enjolras nods, frigid. “Guillaume.”

“How have you been? Are you still in school?”

“Yeah.”

“And who’s this? Your new man?”

“No,” Enjolras begins, but Bahorel cuts him off, frowning.

“Hey, wait a second. I remember you. You’re Guillaume.”

Guillaume bows. “Guilty as charged.”

“You dick,” bellows Bahorel. “I’m going to kill you for what you did to Enjolras!”

He rushes forward, and although Enjolras tries to get in the way, he’s much too small, and Bahorel is much too large and angry. He’s thrown helplessly aside, trying to regain his balance on the sticky floor, and watches in horror as Bahorel draws back his fist and punches Guillaume straight in the nose. 

“How d’ya like that?” he roars. 

Guillaume stumbles back, wiping the blood from his nose with one hand. He’s snarling like a feral dog, and Enjolras tries to resist the urge to run away.

“Motherfucker,” he growls, and begins to circle in closer. “You really wanna do this?”

Bahorel grins at him. It makes Enjolras shiver. “You bet I do.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do, because he really doesn’t want Bahorel to fight Guillaume on his behalf, but he has no idea how to stop the fight from occurring. He starts to wring his hands, knowing he looks like a damsel in distress, but not able to stop himself.

“Please don’t do this,” he hears himself say. “It’s really stupid, and you’re just going to get hurt for no reason.”

“It’s not no reason,” says Bahorel, eyes still pinned on Guillaume. “I’m defending your honor, little one.”

“But you don’t have to!”

At this point, the bouncer comes dashing over, and though he doesn’t try to get in the middle of the fight, his presence is commanding enough to stop Bahorel and Guillaume from advancing on each other. Both of them turn and look at him in tandem.

“What?”

“We can’t have you fighting in here,” says the bouncer. “Go out to the parking lot like normal people.”

“No, don’t do that,” says Enjolras, but neither Bahorel nor Guillaume pays him any attention. They glare at the bouncer, then at each other, and then, as if in synchrony, turn and march out the door, presumably to go to the parking lot. At least half the bar patrons, alerted and excited by the idea of a spectacle, follow. Enjolras looks at the bouncer pleadingly. “Can’t you stop them?”

“I shouldn’t,” says the bouncer, in what he probably thinks is a sage and knowing manner. “Men need to get their aggression out. We’re violent beasts, you know.”

Enjolras has never really thought of himself as a violent beast, and he doesn’t think he wants to. Besides, he’s not really sure that this is the best way to get aggression out. 

“I’m just worried that they’ll hurt each other,” he says.

“Blood! Guts! Broken bones!” The bouncer clenches his fist, looking up to the ceiling in a transport of rapture. “Is there anything like it? Skin on skin, nothing between you but _passion_ , each touch electrifying! Your opponent— no, your _partner_ in the fight— brings his own rhythm to meld with yours as you pound into each other, and you keep it up, giving all of yourself, until that final moment of _explosion_ , when the world whites out and you feel that rush of ecstasy through your entire self! Oh yes, the intimacy of a fight— it’s like nothing else.”

“Uh, okay,” says Enjolras. “I guess I’ll go stop them, then.”

He goes out to the parking lot to see a ring of drunken merry-makers cheering and shouting and occasionally shoving each other. They’re all taller than he is, but he manages to push through anyway, until he can get a clear view of what’s going on. 

Bahorel and Guillaume are shirtless, shoeless, and feckless, screaming insults and hitting each other and occasionally pounding on their chests like wannabe-alpha gorillas. They don’t seem to care that anyone is watching them; in fact, they seem spurred on by the attention. Enjolras, despite his confident words, has no idea how to stop them. 

“I believe in aliens!” shouts Bahorel suddenly, and Guillaume stutters in confusion. 

“What?”

“Just kidding.” Bahorel clocks him, and he falls over, sprawling on the dirty parking lot. 

“Fuck.”

“I guess I win,” crows Bahorel. “Mess with Enjolras again, and I’ll be back to give you more.”

“Fuck again.” Guillaume slowly sits up, rubbing his head. “Enjolras? Did you see that?”

“I sure did.”

“Well, just know that I’m not at my best today. I could totally have won, but...”

“Yeah, whatever.” Bahorel grabs his shirt and shoes in one hand, and puts the other on Enjolras’s back to guide him away. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Enjolras follows him back into the bar and over to where Marius is still sitting. He’s looking at his phone and frowning, and doesn’t appear to notice that Enjolras is back, let alone with Bahorel.

“Hey,” Enjolras says eventually. “Can we go home?”

“Huh?” Marius looks up from his phone. “Did you say you want to go home?”

“Well, yeah. I’m tired.”

“I’m not.”

“I’ll take you home,” says Bahorel. “That is, if you’re ready?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras looks at Marius. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave?”

“Go ahead,” says Marius, waving his hand dismissively. “I want to see if— uh, anyone saw me check in here on Facebook.”

Enjolras doesn’t know how to tell him that probably no one did, because no one except Cosette’s dad and his arch-nemesis-slash-crush is on Facebook anymore. He just pats him on the back as heartily as he can.

“Well, then. Uh, goodnight. And thank you again.”

“Night night,” says Marius, and turns back to his phone. Knowing he’s been dismissed, Enjolras turns to Bahorel.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Come on, I parked in the next lot over.”

Enjolras follows him out to the parking lot, trying and failing to keep up with his long strides. When they get to the car, Bahorel insists on strapping him in, and it’s a little irksome, but it’s also cute. 

“Thanks,” he says. “Are you sure you’re okay with dropping me off?”

“You’re already in the car,” Bahorel points out. “What would I do, make you get out and stand in the parking lot as I drove away?”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” Bahorel turns and kisses him loudly on the head. “Okay, cutie pie, let’s get you home.”

Bahorel is a terrifying driver, but they get to Enjolras’s apartment in one piece. Enjolras asks, but Bahorel declines his invitation to come up, and kisses him goodbye before screeching the tires and zooming away. Smiling slightly to himself, full of love for his weird and lovely friends, Enjolras climbs the stairs to his apartment and goes in.

“I’m home.”

“Welcome back,” says Combeferre. He’s curled on the couch, wearing one of Courfeyrac’s snuggies, watching a documentary about aliens, and eating Enjolras’s cookies-and-cream ice cream straight out of the tub. Enjolras makes a sound of protest.

“Hey, you don’t even like that flavor!”

“It’s good,” says Combeferre with his mouth full. “I realized this.”

“Well, let me have some.” Enjolras takes his shoes and coat off and comes over to the couch. He climbs up next to Combeferre and takes the carton and spoon. “My date with Marius was so bad,” he says. 

“Was it?”

“Yeah. Almost everything went wrong.”

“Well, I guess you two aren't on the same page about that, because apparently, he’s been telling everyone about what a good date he is.”

Enjolras puts down his spoon. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, Courfeyrac told me.”

“Huh.” Enjolras thinks about it. “That’s kind of endearing.”

“It is, isn’t it? But tell me about it. I want to hear your version of what happened.”

Enjolras launches into it, telling him about all the awkward moments and the mishaps and the bar fight at the end of the night. As he tells the story, Combeferre’s eyes get wider and wider, and when he finishes up, he bursts into laughter.

“Oh, Enjolras. You really had a time there, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“So, do you feel better about your date with Grantaire now?”

Enjolras pops the last spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and sets the carton and spoon aside. “I think so,” he says. “I mean, whatever happens, it can’t go as badly as this did.”

“That’s right.” Combeferre lifts his arm up. “Come here.”

Enjolras happily scoots over and settles himself against Combeferre’s side. He’s so warm and cuddly, though few people know it. Full of a sudden rush of love, Enjolras stretches up and kisses him on the cheek. 

“I love you, ‘Ferre.”

“I love you too, Enjolras.”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Enjolras says decisively. “I’m still nervous, but I feel better now. And for now, we can watch this alien documentary until I fall asleep and you have to carry me to bed.”

Combeferre laughs. “Sounds like a plan.”

So that’s what they do, and Enjolras curls closer and closer, until his eyes fall shut by themselves, and his body feels like it’s being pulled into the couch by extra-strong gravity, and Combeferre takes the couch blanket and wraps it around him, and, warm and safe, he drifts off into a world of gentle dreams. 


End file.
